


Stars We Have Yet To Reach

by A_Martell



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, High School AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Martell/pseuds/A_Martell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their swan song. Their final stand.</p><p>They may not have expected things to change, but they do. </p><p>Welcome to senior year at Atlantis High.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars We Have Yet To Reach

Elizabeth Weir does not expect her senior year to be any different to all her other years of schooling, and so far, it’s turning out that way.

 

As she listens to her History Higher Level teacher drone on about the 1905 Russian Revolution, she tunes out slightly, twisting her pen between her fingers absentmindedly. She can’t really believe that she’s already a month in; it’s all been happening so fast. She had almost forgotten how much work the IB is, and now she’s been swept away by a deluge of essays, Internal Assessments, and tests that are supposed to be gearing them up for the big, long-awaited, final exams in May. Coupled with all of her extra-curriculars and college applications, she barely has enough time to tuck herself up in bed and read a good book.

 

But, despite how busy she is, nothing unexpected has happened. She’s a little surprised at this; all the young adult books she’s secretly read as guilty pleasures have always described senior year as being a time of change, a time of discovery. But _nothing_ around her has changed; everything’s exactly the same, and she hasn’t discovered anything new about herself. She’s following the exact same routine that she always does: wake up in the morning, read the newspaper, go to school, work in the library at lunch, come home, do homework, read, go to bed.

 

No differences.

 

She’s contemplating this when the teacher speaks directly to her. “Miss Weir?”

 

“Sorry, what was the question?” she asks, with such smoothness that he doesn’t realize that she wasn’t listening. “I’m sorry, I missed the last part.”

 

“Who led the Bloody Sunday march to the Winter Palace?”

 

“Father Georgei Gapon,” she says, without missing a beat.

 

“Very good.” He turns his attention away from her and continues his lecture. She settles back in her chair and scribbles a few things on her notepad, only half listening. She read this chapter yesterday at lunch, and as far as she can tell, her teacher isn’t providing any new insight on the issue.

 

“You okay?” her friend Teyla whispers from beside her. “You seem distracted”

 

“Yeah,” Elizabeth says. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

Teyla, on the other hand, has changed a lot. They’ve been friends for a while, ever since Teyla moved from abroad—she’s probably the only real friend Elizabeth has—but she’s no longer as focused on academics. Although she still does incredibly well in the classroom, Teyla is a star on the sports field. She’s the captain of the soccer, hockey and track and field teams, and Elizabeth knows that she’s gunning for a sports scholarship to a top university. She’ll probably get it too, due to her lucky combination of brains and athletic ability. Teyla mostly takes the same classes that Elizabeth does, and is the only one able to really match Elizabeth’s grades. Elizabeth kind of considers her her academic rival.

 

Plus, her social life is excellent. Probably something to do with hanging around with all the jocks and cheerleaders.

 

That’s kind of why they’ve drifted apart recently. Teyla gets invited to all the parties, Elizabeth doesn’t. Teyla sits with her teammates at lunch, Elizabeth sits in the library. Her only company is usually a total science geek named Rodney, who loves complaining to her about how the physics course is far too easy and how everyone in his class is a complete idiot. He’s irritating, and sometimes a little unbearable, but Elizabeth doesn’t mind him most of the time. He’s got a great mind, and he’s always willing to help, even if he complains about it to no end.

 

She doesn’t mind being alone, most of the time, because it gives her an opportunity to focus on her work. Her mother tries to drag her out to parties, adamant that there is more to life than academics, but she maintains that she needs to focus. She wants to become a diplomat, the best there is, and to do that, she’s going to need to get into a good university.

 

Just one more year, she thinks. Then she’ll go to an Ivy League—Yale, if she ever manages to actually finish her application essays and get accepted—and have a bit of a social life, before going on to work with the United Nations.

 

She’s got this all sorted out. She’s _always_ had it all sorted out.

 

“Elizabeth.” Teyla nudges her. “Mr. Keeler is giving back our tests.”

 

Sure enough, the history teacher’s rifling through a stack of papers on his desk. He removes a bunch and begins checking names and distributing them through the class. Elizabeth gets hers quickly, and anxiously checks the grade on the top.

 

It’s a seven.

 

A.K.A. the highest grade you can get in the IB.

 

 _Thank goodness_. She hadn’t been so sure about the essay on foreign intervention in the Spanish Civil War, but it’s apparently turned out okay.

 

“How did you do?” Teyla asks. Most people would just peer over, but Teyla’s always been kind and diplomatic: she’ll ask, and won’t press you if you don’t want to tell. It’s one of the reasons Elizabeth likes her so much.

 

“Well enough,” Elizabeth tells her. “You?”

 

Teyla shrugs, a movement that she manages to make look graceful. “Okay. A six.”

 

“Teyla, that’s great!”

 

She smiles. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I suppose it is, but I was only a few marks off a seven.”

 

“Oh, that does suck.” Elizabeth makes a sympathetic face. “I’m sure you’ll do better next time.”

 

“Hopefully,” Teyla says with a smile. That’s another thing Elizabeth likes about her: no matter what, she always manages to stay cheerful. Elizabeth wishes she could be more like that; rather, she gets worried and stressed very easily, even if she doesn’t always show it.

 

The bell rings, a shrill sound that cuts through the air, and Elizabeth begins gathering her things. It’s lunch now, and Rodney’s promised to help her with a couple of math equations she’s been having trouble with. Trigonometry just doesn’t agree with her, not like History and Economics do. She’s got to get to the library fast, before he gets involved with some other work and forgets all about her.

 

Which he’s done on more than one occasion.

 

Everything’s packed neatly into her tote, she’s waved goodbye to Teyla, and she’s practically out the door when Mr. Keeler stops her. “Elizabeth, could I have a word?”

 

She pauses for a second, and mentally curses. She’s _definitely_ going to be late for her meeting with Rodney now, and chances are, he’ll never shut up about her being late. Like, ever.

 

But, she’s Elizabeth Weir, and she can’t say no to a teacher. So she turns around, smiles, and says, “Sure!”

 

“And you too, John.”

 

Elizabeth turns around and her eyes land on John Sheppard, who’s looking rather bewildered. He’s new to the school, just transferred in, and she doesn’t really know much about him, except that he’s on the soccer team and is, apparently, quite good. He’s got a very ‘don’t care’ vibe about him, she notes; his hair is all tousled. She wonders if he even combed it.

 

Teyla probably knows things about him. She makes a mental note to ask her; for someone who doesn’t really socialize much, she still thrives off knowing things about people. It’s what, she’s sure, makes her so good at MUN and debating. She knows how people tick, she can read them like books, and she knows how to make them cave.

 

She can’t quite read this one though. She surveys him covertly again. He’s standing by Mr. Keeler’s desk, looking both confident and nervous at the same time. He smiles at her, and she smiles back.

 

She wonders if he actually knows her name.

 

“Elizabeth, as you know, John’s just transferred in. Apparently, the history there wasn’t up to scratch,” Mr. Keeler says.

 

Ouch. Poor thing. Elizabeth feels bad for him. It’s always hard to transfer schools in the middle of the IB, especially when your old school didn’t prepare you properly.

 

“He’s been struggling slightly.”

 

“I don’t really…get…how to do these essays,” John tells her. Keeler looks a bit surprised that he’s interrupted, but he lets him continue. “And source analysis confuses me.”

 

Elizabeth nods. “It can be difficult to get the hang of.”

 

“That’s where you come in,” Mr. Keeler says quickly. “John approached me, wondered if I could find him a tutor, and I was thinking that you’d be the best, if, of course, you’re willing.”

 

 _Tutoring_?

 

She’s never tutored anyone in her life, let alone someone she barely knows. Would she even be a good tutor? Does she even have the _time_ to tutor? Although, she does suppose it’ll look great on college applications. Helping out a fellow student in the middle of senior year—not many people’d be willing to do that.

 

She shoots a look at John, trying to assess whether he actually _wants_ to be tutored by her, or whether this is something that Keeler’s pressuring him into, but she gets nothing. He just looks at her with enormous, chocolate brown eyes, and she gets a feeling that he wants her to say yes, but at the same time, she’s completely unsure and—

 

“Elizabeth?” Keeler’s waiting.

 

“Of course, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, or you don’t have the time,” John interrupts again, and she begins wondering if this guy has a filter.

 

“I’ll do it,” she says, somewhat impulsively. Everyone around her visibly relaxes, and she sees John’s shoulders contract. He smiles at her again and she smiles back, albeit, a little nervously. She guesses she’ll be getting to know him now.

 

Keeler tells her that he’s proud of her, and then he dismisses them. They walk out together, kind of awkwardly, each wondering when the other is going to say something. Elizabeth’s about to take that first step when the door closes behind them, but John turns to her. “Look, I know you might’ve said yes because of Keeler, so I just want to say—if you don’t want to do it, you really don’t have to, I mean, I could find another tutor.”

 

Elizabeth’s a little surprised, but she gets over it quickly. “It’s fine, really,” she says, waving her hand. “I don’t mind.”

 

“If you’re sure.” John looks a little doubtful. “I mean, I know how busy you are.”

 

This time, she’s really surprised. “You do?”

 

“Sure,” he says, before realizing that she’s looking a little taken aback. “I mean, I’m always seeing pictures of you everywhere, and didn’t the principal say, at that assembly, that you’ve got the most extracurricular hours out of anyone in the grade?”

 

She blinks at him. He remembers? “Er, yeah. Yeah, I do.”

 

It’s a little unnerving that he knows all this stuff about her, and she knows nothing about him. He seems, though, to pick up on this.

 

“I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself to you,” he says, turning to her. “Properly, I mean.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m John Sheppard.”

 

She smiles and takes his hand. “I’m Elizabeth Weir, John Sheppard,” she says, the grin seeping into her voice. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” he says with a laugh. “So, we should set up a meeting time?”

 

“Oh, definitely.” Elizabeth digs around in her tote for her Moleskine diary and flips it open to the current date. The lines are all filled with her precise, neat handwriting, detailing deadlines and assignments. She’s made little to-do lists and catalogued all of her appointments: MUN meetings, student body campaigns. “Does Thursday work for you? After school?”

 

John shakes his head, looking rather apologetic. “Sorry, I’ve got practice. Friday?”

 

Elizabeth bites her cheek as she checks. “Er—yeah, actually, Friday works. In the library?”

 

“Sure!”

 

“Great,” she says. “Friday it is then!”

 

“Got it,” he replies. They’ve reached the end of the hallway, and he turns to the right, giving her a little wave. “See you then, Elizabeth.”

 

“See you, John.” She waves back. His name sounds funny on her tongue—it takes her a while, once she meets someone, to call them by their first name.

 

Suddenly, she realizes the time and groans, mentally slapping herself.

 

 _Shoot_. _Rodney_.

 

.oOo.

 

Rodney checks his watch. Five minutes. Elizabeth is five whole minutes late. He could’ve finished at least a quarter of his physics homework by now, if only he hadn’t stupidly agreed to help her with Trig. Who has a problem with standard level Trig anyway? Isn’t Elizabeth supposed to be _smart_?

 

Well, he reconsiders, Elizabeth is actually quite smart, not that he’ll tell her that to her face. He’s read some of her essays, and he’s seen her in action during MUN. She’s got an incredible insight and a way with people. It’s like she can get them to do anything she wants them to do.

 

 _He_ can’t get people do what he wants them to do. He tries delegating tasks during lab work, but all the others in his class are idiots and they always screw things up, particularly that absolute dunce Zelenka, who he’s being forced to work with on their latest project. If he needs something done, he has to do it himself. It’s the only way it’ll turn out right.

 

The clock’s ticking and the door to the library remains firmly shut. Sighing, Rodney gets up from his seat and moves into the shelves, looking for reference books on astrophysics for a bit of light reading. He’s got a test coming up, and he wants to be able to impress his teacher with some extra, advanced knowledge on the subject. Maybe it’ll land him a particularly glowing college recommendation.

 

He’s drafting out said recommendation in his head as he combs through the titles on the shelves. _Rodney is a particularly bright student with an academic curiosity unlike anything I have ever seen. His brilliance is practically out of this—_

“Excuse me,” says a voice from behind him. “Are you a library assistant?”

 

Who the hell is interrupting his inner discourse?

 

If there’s one thing about Rodney McKay that _everyone_ should know, it’s that he hates being interrupted. It doesn’t matter whether he’s reading, performing an experiment, working on solving a particularly difficult math problem, or even just complaining about something or the other he does not want to be interrupted, period. He turns around, ready to yell at whoever it is who’s rude enough to simply _approach_ him, uninvited, when he’s caught off guard.

 

Standing before him is a petite girl with thick black glasses, blonde hair tied up in a slightly messy ponytail, and big blue eyes. “I…uh…” he stammers. It takes him a few moments to form a comprehensible sentence. “I’m not a library assistant. They’ve, er, got badges.”

 

“Oh, shoot!” The girl turns a bright red. “I didn’t mean to disturb you! I’m sorry, I—I’m new here. Still getting used to things.” She giggles nervously.

 

“No problem,” Rodney says, much to his own surprise. “Er, maybe I can help you find what you’re looking for?”

 

 _What_? _What is he doing?_ He doesn’t simply offer his _help_ to people.

 

The girl beams. “That’d be amazing, thanks. You owouldn’t happen to know where the bio books are, would you?”

 

Rodney almost crinkles his nose at the mention of biology—he’s always telling his friend Carson, who’s obsessed with it, that it’s not a real science—but he shows her where they are anyway. She thanks him, turning slightly red again as she apologizes for disturbing him.

 

He goes back to browsing his own books, but he keeps shooting her little looks anyway. She’s concentrating on the books in front of her: sliding some of them out and skimming over the blurbs before either replacing them or adding them to the growing pile in her arms. Rodney watches as she struggles to hold the overflowing stacks.

 

“Do you need help with those?” he says before he can stop himself. Seriously, what is _wrong_ with him today?

 

She looks up. “Oh! Oh, that’d be great, yeah, thanks.”

 

He helps her carry the books over to the librarian’s table and stands with her as she checks them out. He sneaks a glance at the titles: they all seem to be about different aspects of human physiology. “Project for bio?” he asks her.

 

“Not really,” she says, a little sheepishly. “I—er—well, I find this stuff really interesting, y’know, how the human body functions and all that. Don’t you?”

 

Rodney’s torn between being brutally honest and saying that he finds it incredibly boring, or lying to impress her. He decides on the latter. “Oh, yeah,” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound too forced. Elizabeth’s told him he’s an awful liar. “Super interesting.”

 

The girl seems to believe him, because her grin widens. “I’m really interested in the nervous system. I’m thinking of becoming a neurosurgeon one day.”

 

Oh, wow, this girl is serious. “That’s amazing,” Rodney says.

 

“Yeah.” She smiles at him, gathering up her books. “I suppose I should be going now, then. What did you say your name was?”

 

Rodney realizes with a start that he hasn’t introduced himself. “Oh! I’m Rodney. McKay.”

 

“I’m Jennifer,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you, Rodney! See you, then!”

 

He waves goodbye to her, smiling like a dork. Suddenly, he hears his name being called and spins around. Elizabeth’s running towards him, practically red in the face, like she’s been running. “I’m sorry,” she wheezes. “Keeler held me back, needed to talk to me.”

 

“It’s fine,” he says, and she looks at him quizzically.

 

“Fine? Since when is being late _fine_ with you?”

 

“Do you want a lecture?”

 

“Nope,” she says quickly. “I’m fine.” She looks up and notices Jennifer’s retreating back. “Who’s that?”

 

“Who’s who?”

 

She gives him a look. “Don’t give me that, Rodney. The girl you were talking to.”

 

“Oh, her,” Rodney says, trying to act dismissive. “Just a girl. No one, really.”

 

Elizabeth raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t react. Instead, he tries to convince himself that what he’s said is true. She _is_ no one, at least to him. He doesn’t know the faintest thing about her, except her name and that she likes biology.

 

But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to find out more.


End file.
